


An Earnest Multitude

by InNovaFertAnimus



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Awkwardness, Bisexuality, Fluff and Humor, Multi, coming to terms with your own sexuality, tiny bit angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-20 14:24:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14896239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InNovaFertAnimus/pseuds/InNovaFertAnimus
Summary: He thinks about Solo sleeping in the other room, one side of the bed reserved for Illya. He thinks about Gaby, who might still be at the garage humming to the radio. Both images make him feel …something.And on top of that, definitely confused.An alternative first meeting in which Illya gets a set of new partners, finds he likes them a bit more than he technically should and joins UNCLE, but not in that order.





	An Earnest Multitude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ister/gifts).



> I loved the prompt about the different new meeting, I really couldn't help myself :D And since it's pride month, why not let Illya have his very own very bi awakening?
> 
> Happy Summer Solstice and Happy Pride :)
> 
> Thanks to my fabulous beta Canardroublard!

  


 

The second time that Illya regrets signing his official transfer papers is when their car makes a suspicious noise and slows to a stop in the middle of the road.

For a few moments Illya just stares at the smoke coming from the hood as if it would disappear if Illya could just glare at it hard enough.

He doesn’t miss the KGB, not even a bit if he’s honest with himself, but he can’t help but think he would have gotten around East Germany a lot smoother with his old credentials. Yes, their cover would not allow a better car, them having a car at all was a stretch already, but their cover doesn’t really matter if they are stuck hours away from East Berlin.

The sound of the car door opening to his right startles him out of his thoughts. With a suppressed sigh, Illya gets out of the car as well.

His new partner is already lifting the hood of the car to take a look at the motor. Napoleon Solo, former-thief-turned-CIA, is just as fresh to UNCLE as Illya. Their supervisor Waverly thought they would make good partners because of their different skillsets.

The first time Illya regretted joining UNCLE was when Solo entered Waverly’s office.

 While Solo waits for the smoke to clear, he rolls up the sleeves of his pristine white dress shirt and somehow makes the motion look elegant. Illya catches himself tracing the revealed skin before he frowns and glares into the motor, although the remains of the smoke burn in his eyes.

“Can you fix it?”

Solo hums and leans a bit closer.

“A pity our engineer is already waiting for us in Berlin. This doesn’t look like an easy repair. Sorry, Peril.”

Illya’s eye twitches at the nickname, but he keeps quiet.

The first car that stops for them drives off just seconds after Illya opens his mouth and gives away his heritage. Solo pats him on his back with amusement. Even that little contact makes Illya’s skin tingle, so he twists away with a frown.

Solo has more luck with the next car. Illya keeps his mouth shut as he climbs into the back seat, his knees almost folded up to his chest. In the passenger seat Solo chats easily with the driver, who just happens to know the car mechanic in the next town.

Illya just listens half-heartedly to him gushing about the new hand at the shop, some girl who knows her way around cars like no other. A pity she’s not staying. Solo holds the conversation effortlessly, so Illya tries to make himself as comfortable as he can be and stays silent.

Solo’s voice is deep and actually quite nice. Illya shakes off the thought as soon as he catches himself.  It’s ridiculous. Illya has to get rid of this, whatever this is (he knows exactly what it is), and just finish the mission. Maybe he could ask Waverly for another partner, who won’t make work quite so …difficult for Illya, but that would only mean Solo won and Illya won’t give him that satisfaction.

There are few people Illya met in his life that manage to catch him off-guard. Solo is one of them, infuriatingly so. Two hours into their partnership, Illya was ready to strangle him. Solo slipped under Illya’s skin so easily and he was painfully aware of that fact. There was no malice in it, only teasing for now, leaving easy openings for Illya to tease right back. Which he does not. Not every time at least.

The most annoying part is that Illya catches himself enjoying it, the banter, the attention and underlying respect. It never used to bother him that he was rather distant with the other agents back at the KGB. It comes with the job. Spies shouldn’t get attached to anyone, but Solo makes it hard to remember that sometimes.

Really, Illya needs to get it together before he does something he’s going to regret. Whatever that might be.

The car comes to an abrupt stop, bringing Illya back to the present. They are in front of a chop shop, a little run down, but in good business, judging from the cars out in front.

They are greeted by a man in his forties, wearing oil-stained overalls, already directing them to the infamous girl-mechanic working in the other corner of the garage.

Her legs are sticking out under the car as Solo casually leans against the wall next to him.

“Ich dachte mit der original zwei Liter Maschine waren sie untermotorisiert, aber das ist eine gute Verbesserung. Klebe Flügel dran und du brauchst eine Startbahn.“

Illya needs all his resolve not to roll his eyes. Of course Solo would try to flirt with her. He should have seen that coming. Solo is subtle at least, ready to backpedal if his moves are unwelcome. They rarely are, though. Why couldn’t he have just waited until they have their car problems handled? Or maybe just until Illya doesn’t have to witness it.

With a swift move, the mechanic appears from under the car.

Illya doesn’t know what he expected. Maybe someone more sturdy, with a little more years on her back and meat on her bones, but not the women staring up at them. She’s a few years younger than them, Illya guesses, with a slim build and large brown eyes. Her overalls are stained with oil, just as her face, but the colorful scarf in her hair makes it almost look intentional.

“Ihr Akzent ist ziemlich gut für einen Amerikaner.“

Illya can make out the slightest twitch in Solo’s lips. Ms. Schmidt only glances at him before she rolls back under the car.

“Who are you and what do you want?” She switches languages effortlessly, probably just to ruffle Solo’s feathers.

Not just a handy mechanic then. She’s smart. Illya feels the corners of his lips twitch upwards. He finds himself speaking before Solo can.

“Our car broke down on the way, we need a mechanic.”

The mechanic rolls back out to look at Illya curiously.

“How does an American get a Russian riding shotgun in East Germany?”

They had an answer prepared for exactly that question. He already knows this is not what he’s going to say.

Illya can’t help smirking a little.

“I’m driving, _he’s_ riding shotgun.”

She huffs and takes it as the evasion it is. She looks over her shoulders to shout at the man who greeted them before.

“Max, kannst du sie für mich abschleppen?“

They hear a deep rumbling laugh from across the garage.

“Sie nicht, das Auto schon.“

Ms. Schmidt huffs out a laugh and turns back around to them. Either she doesn’t think they understood the joke or she doesn’t care.

“One of you needs to go back with Max to get your car. I’ll see what I can do then.”

Before Illya can say anything, Solo pats him on the shoulder and walks into the direction of the other mechanic.

“See you later, Peril. Try not to break anything while I’m away.”

He slips away before Illya can retort anything. It’s another thing Illya doesn’t like about his new partner. He’s way too quick on his feet.

Ms. Schmidt raises her eyebrows at Illya, then she rolls back under the car.

“You can wait here until your friend comes back. There’s not much to do in this town.”

Something about her makes Illya’s mouth slip open again before he can prevent it.

“The Cowboy is not my friend.”

A loud crack coming from the car makes Illya wince.

She chuckles lowly, as if she’s seen him.

“Somehow I don’t think you’re actually called Peril and Cowboy.”

“No, we’re not.”

Illya contemplates his options. In a town this small, they are bound to draw attention anyway. There’s no way a pair of false names would help if anyone asked after a Russian and an American coming through together. Not giving a name might actually cause even more suspicion.

“Illya.”

“And your friend?”

Illya can hear the teasing in her voice, but it doesn’t rile him up like Solo’s jabs or the stupid nickname he gave him.

And in this moment the perfect opportunity to take revenge presents itself. He doesn’t even try to hide the smirk forming on his face.

“You can call him Napoleon.”

Her answer is a grunt and an even louder noise coming from under the car. Illya almost expects the car to collapse above her, but it holds.

A moment later she rolls back out under it.

“Hand me the wrench on the table.”

Without even thinking of refusing, Illya locates the table easily and walks over to find tools scattered all over it.

“Which one?”

“The big one, blue handle.”

It takes Illya a few seconds to find it. It probably would have been faster if she went herself.

The wrench feels heavy in his hand as he approaches. He becomes aware how he must look, towering over her with a heavy tool in his hand, the scar on his face clearly visible from her angle. He has the strange urge to duck a little, but then he meets her eyes.

She doesn’t seem intimidated, not even in the slightest. She just sits carelessly on her creeper while she waits for Illya to move. She looks downright unimpressed, with a hint of impatience and it’s ...nice, somehow.

He catches himself staring and hurries to hand her the tool. His stomach does a weird flip when their fingers brush together. Some of it must have shown on his face, because she smirks.

“Don’t be scared, my Russian friend. I’m gentle when it counts. You can call me Gaby, by the way.”

He nods jerkily and looks away, suddenly unable to hold her gaze.

He says something about needing to go outside more out of reflex than anything. Gaby winks at him and goes back to work, while Illya walks out of the garage a little too quickly to be casual.

Only after he has left the garage altogether does he finally process what happened, only to not understand.

He likes Gaby. He _likes_ her.

And it doesn’t make any sense.  

 

***

 

For a long time Illya knew he liked men in a way he shouldn’t. He never understood all the chatter about girls. Aesthetically they are beautiful, of course, and Illya holds nothing but respect for them, but he couldn’t understand all the excitement the other boys felt about them. He remembers asking one of the older boys about it and he told Illya that he would understand soon enough. Illya never got the boy’s name, but when the boy turned around and winked at Illya, Illya understood. There was a rush of heat to Illya’s face, a fluttering feeling in his stomach and Illya walked away before the other boy could notice.

He’s never told anyone. It took a long time until he was sure and then kept quiet about it. It wasn’t all that hard with his growing reputation in the Russian military. He climbed the ranks quickly, staying too busy to meet anyone.

They put down Oedipus-complex in his file after he lost it when one of the recruits joked about his mother. It doesn’t bother him that they got the reason for his nonexistant love life wrong. They probably helped him with it.

Illya stayed alone, his secret safe, and it was fine.

 He always thought having relationships in this line of work was cruel. How could he tell anyone to wait for him, if he might never come back?

It was fine until Solo was assigned to him.

Illya doesn’t know how Solo found out, but he knows.

Illya should have told him off the first time he sneaked an innuendo into their conversations, but he was too surprised, especially when Napoleon just winked at Illya’s silence and continued talking about their covers in the most professional way. It was the beginning of the end, really. Illya should have acted at least offended, letting Solo know how unacceptable his behavior was, but he didn’t, because there was the same fluttering in his stomach as years ago. His body betrayed him in that tiny moment when Illya should have reacted to keep his secret safe. Nothing much happened so far, but Solo and Illya’s own stupid fancy won’t let him forget.

And now Illya is stuck in the same tiny motel room with him for at least two days. Their car needs some replacement parts that Gaby has to order. At least the repair itself won’t take that long.

 Gaby was right, there is indeed not much to do in this town. Illya spends a few hours wandering around with no lasting impression. There’s a small pub, some undescriptive shops, but nothing of interest.

It leaves Illya with little choice but to return to the motel, where Solo is probably sprawled in the living room and just as bored as Illya. He’s seen their lodging shortly when they brought up their luggage. There’s only one bed, technically large enough for both of them.

Illya doesn’t think he is ready to face that.

Before he even can think about it, he finds himself in front of the garage. He checks his watch. It’s just past nine o’clock. They must already be closed for the day. Something makes him try the handle anyway. It’s not locked.

Despite his expectations it’s not quiet inside. A radio is playing.

Illya finds it in the corner of the room, right next to Gaby, who is looking under the hood of another car. Illya can hear her hum along.

His feet stop abruptly. What exactly is he doing here?

In the next moment something is flying towards him.

He twists away out of reflex. The heavy wrench bounces off the wall where his head had been a moment before.

His head whips back around to find Gaby staring right back at him. For a moment neither of them moves until Gaby lets out a huff.

“How do men think it’s a good idea to startle a woman who is working alone in the evening?”

Illya ducks his head.

“Sorry.”

“We’re closed.”

He ducks even further down under her stare, feeling utterly ashamed of himself. He always hated those men, who thought they’d be welcome anywhere and anytime, and now look at him. He should have let the wrench hit him.

“Yes, of course.”

Illya turns around swiftly, ready to flee. He just hopes she’s not mad enough to refuse to repair their car. Not that she doesn’t have every right to do that.

A low chuckle makes him stop in his tracks.

“You sure don’t know how to approach a girl, do you?”

Now that he hears it from her mouth, he is hit with the realization that this is exactly what he came here to do. Approach her, when he doesn’t even know what’s going on with him.

This is bad.

“I’m so—“

“Get me my wrench back.”

Illya blinks once.

“I should go.”

She’s leaning against the car now, holding out her hand.

“Yes, you should, but wrench first.”

Illya is quicker to comply than he would like to admit. He picks it up from the floor and crosses the distance with a few steps. Carefully he places the wrench in her outstretched hand and instantly falls back to the door again.

Gaby tilts her head and hums once.

“If you’re that bored you’d actually want to watch me work, you can come back tomorrow. When the shop is open.”

Illya’s confusion must have shown on his face. He schools it back into something neutral, but he’s not fast enough for Gaby not to catch it.

She shrugs once and turns back to the car.

“You’re the first one who apologized.”

Illya feels a surge of protectiveness at the idea of men trying to corner her like that, before he remembers he basically did the same. He nods shortly, the shame already creeping back into his face.

He has to clear his throat once.

“Thank you. Have a good night.”

Gaby waves at him, her concentration already back on the car. Illya makes sure to close the door silently behind him.

His thoughts are in a blur on his way to the motel.

He finds Solo just like he expected, stretched out on the ratty couch already wearing pajamas.

Solo raises his eyebrows at him, glancing over the magazine he’s reading.

“What in this town did I miss that you could spent hours on?”

Illya huffs once. He’s definitely not telling Solo how he behaved like a confused teenager around Gaby. It would be a too powerful weapon.

For once, Solo takes Illya’s silence as an answer. His partner stretches his arms over his head and gets up from the couch.

“I’ll head to bed. Sweet dreams, Peril.”

Before Illya can tell him to drop the nickname, Solo speaks up again. 

“I made dinner. There’s still some left, if you want it.”

Surprised, Illya turns to the tiny kitchen to find indeed a plate full of pasta next to the stove. He mumbles a thank you, just before Solo closes the door after him.

The pasta is good, even cold.

Illya chooses to stay on the couch that night.

He thinks about Solo sleeping in the other room, one side of the bed reserved for Illya. He thinks about Gaby, who might still be at the garage humming to the radio. Both images make him feel …something.

And on top of that, definitely confused.  

 

***

 

He does come back to the garage the next day, since there isn’t really anything else to do in this town, at least that’s how Illya justifies it to himself. Solo just raises his eyebrows knowingly when he leaves their lodgings. He always looks knowingly and it irritates Illya to no end. Another reason to visit the garage: No Solo.

Gaby doesn’t talk about the way he embarrassed himself yesterday. She simply greets him and then largely ignores him, save for the few occasions she needs something from the other side of the room.

The radio is playing in the background and after a few hours Gaby starts to hum again while she’s practically crawling into the insides of the car she’s working on.

Illya likes it. The humming, the relative calmness and most of all Gaby. It’s no less confusing than yesterday, but it’s easier not to pay attention to it when he watches Gaby. Her hands grab her tools blindly, never wrong, although Illya can see her wield at least five different ones. Her hands are quick, both gentle and strong. He thinks back to the words Gaby said to him yesterday, how she can be gentle when it counts, and he finds she was right. Then he thinks about the way she said it and tries to fight back the heat rising to his face.

It’s been a good morning, maybe a little too good, because Illya has been too distracted to realize he makes an easy target. The attack comes in the form of Solo bringing them lunch.

Of course you can’t leave the American alone for a few hours without him getting stupid ideas.

The sandwiches are good, but that’s the only good thing about it.

Well, that and maybe the face Gaby makes when she bites into hers.

“Tastes like feet.”

There’s a flicker of surprise on Solo’s face, indignation even. It’s just for a moment, but it’s definitely there.

Illya hides his grin by taking a bite of his own and stays silent.

Solo isn’t discouraged though, as he rarely is.

“So, Miss Schmidt, any prognoses for our car?”

Despite her complaint, Gaby takes another bite, making Solo wait for an answer. There’s a faint smirk playing around Solo’s mouth, like they are sharing a joke Illya didn’t get.

Gaby swallows and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Illya doesn’t think that’s very sanitary.

“I’m starting on it this afternoon. It should be good to go by tomorrow.”

Solo’s eyebrows go up in surprise.

“You really live up to your reputation.”

Solo glances at Illya, a little too long to be casual, before he turns back to Gaby.

“Let us invite you for drinks tonight as a thank you.”

The corner of Gaby’s mouth twists up. “I’m not sure you have enough money for that.”

Illya’s stomach sinks. He knew it was coming sooner or later, but this is the moment he knows he can’t keep up with this, with them. It was a nice game, a nice thought that this time it would be different, but it’s not. Whatever Illya feels towards Gaby, towards anyone, it will go nowhere. He thought he accepted it years ago, but somehow it still stings.

Solo hums lowly.

“Let that be our concern.”

Illya cuts in before Solo promises anything he can’t keep.

“Your concern.”

Solo raises his eyebrows at him. It doesn’t look knowing, but Illya can’t quite trust that.

“What, Peril, you have other plans tonight?”

“I don’t drink.”

For a moment Solo just looks at him. This time Illya isn’t too sure how knowing Solo was before suggesting this. The American sighs and looks back at Gaby.

“Well, I suppose we can find something else to occupy ourselves with then.”

“No, you go.”

Illya doesn’t know if Solo wanted him to decline in the first place and go out with Gaby on his own, but it doesn’t matter. He can stop fooling himself now. The smile on his lips is forced. It’s not convincing, but it doesn’t have to be.

“I drive tomorrow, so I’m sleeping early.”

Gaby and Solo exchange a look. It seems to Illya like they’ve done this a thousand times before. Illya wonders how many people there are who can connect instantly or if it’s just Illya who can’t.

The conversation falls into a lull after that. Gaby and Solo still make plans.

Illya leaves with Solo after the last bits of sandwich are consumed. The walk to their lodgings is silent for once. To Illya’s surprise, he doesn’t like it. The moment they arrive, Illya grabs his chess set and occupies the table in the small living room. Solo gets the hint and for once takes it. He disappears into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

The first game is just to wind down, the second one is to make him stop thinking. It doesn’t work as well as it usually does, but time passes and that’s good.

He’s just started the third game when the bedroom door opens.

Solo steps out, a clothes hanger with what appears to be another suit jacket with a matching vest in his hands. Illya’s eyes follow him through the room, where he stops in front of the full body mirror next to the door. Solo hangs it up to disappear back to the bedroom. He comes out again only a few moments later in a fresh dress shirt which is still hanging open on his chest.

“Don’t let me disturb you.”

It’s too late for that. Illya lowers his head back above his chess board, but his eyes are on Solo as the other man starts closing his shirt in front of the mirror. Illya forces his gaze back up, away from the patches of hair on his chest and trailing down from his navel. Solo’s face is blank, which means there’s definitely something on his mind.

Illya frowns. The American for sure didn’t need that mirror to put on his shirt. If he’s playing one if his games again, Illya is going to--

“I think you should come.”

Illya startles at Solo’s voice, only to feel his anger flare. This is what this whole show is about. Illya knows that he’s not social enough to be tolerable, that he’s not fun or entertaining as he should be. He doesn’t need Solo to make him decline again. To make him come along and embarrass himself he needs even less.

“I said I don’t drink.”

Solo hums, unaware of Illya’s annoyance or simply ignoring it.

“That’s exactly why we need you.”

Illya’s frown deepens, but Solo doesn’t pay him any mind. Instead he slips on the vest and starts buttoning it up. Illya deems it safe enough to actually let his gaze sink lower than Solo’s face. His eyes fall on his partner’s hands working the small buttons. He noticed Solo has nice hands, not that he would ever admit that. They look smooth and limber, fitting for a thief, just like Gaby’s calluses fit her hands. For a moment he wonders how different they would feel, but he shakes the thought off instantly. He realized he’s been silent for a little too long to answer Solo. When he tears his gaze off Solo’s hands, he finds his partner looking at him. There’s a faint smirk playing around the edges of his mouth and this one is definitely knowing again.

“Well, it would be rude to let Gaby drink alone, but taking her home safely while being inebriated might be difficult.”

Illya narrows his eyes, while Solo puts on the suit jacket. He knows that Solo tries to play into his sense of decency, he did it as soon as he found out about it, because obviously Solo doesn’t have one of his own. He’s not giving in this time.

 

***

 

They meet Gaby at the bar about an hour later. In hindsight Illya should have understood that Solo only started early to get dressed so that Illya would still have the time to do the same after some convincing. He’s fuming all through showering, putting on his clothes and walking to the bar, but he knows that Solo won this round.

Gaby sits inside at the bar. It’s the first time Illya sees her not wearing dirty overalls. The dress she wears has a modern cut and bright colors and makes her look even more radiant.

She doesn’t look surprised to see Illya after all, but the corners of her mouth twitch up.

Just as they make it over to her, the barkeeper slides a beer in front of her. Unapologetically she takes a sip before nodding into their direction with a smirk.

“Since you are late, I already ordered.”

Illya frowns and looks at his watch. They are indeed late. Three minutes.

Solo chuckles and takes a chair for himself, blatantly leaving the one between them for Illya.

“My apologies. We encountered difficulties along the way.”

Illya can’t help but snort. Gaby tilts her head towards him in question, a curious glimmer in her eyes.

He shrugs and raises his hand to signal the barkeeper.

“Yes, Cowboy has difficult time recognizing taste.”

There’s a twitch in Solo’s jaw, but he keeps his mouth shut. Illya takes that as the final admission of his win. Solo may have tricked him into joining them, but at the cost of actually looking respectable. Solo should thank him, really.

The barkeeper stops in front of them. Before Illya can say anything, another two beers and three shots of clear liquor arrive.

Ignoring both Illya and Napoleon, the barkeeper turns to Gaby and winks.

“Aufs Haus. Wir werden dich vermissen, Gaby.“

She nods in thanks before the man turns to tend to other guests.

Solo raises his eyebrows.

“Why are they going to miss you?”

She hums as she distributes the glasses between them. The way she slides them in front of Illya allows no room for argument.

“This is actually my last night in this town. Your car was my last job. I still have unfinished business elsewhere.”

The tone of the words don’t leave room to ask what this unfinished business entails, but it’s probably better this way. They don’t have the time to help her with it anyway.  

Solo raises his glass then.

“Then to our last night.”

A few days later Illya thinks he should have noticed the odd quirk of Gaby’s lips as she throws back the shot.

 

***

 

Walking out into the fresh night air feels a lot like getting punched into the face, but in a strangely pleasing manner.

Getting down the wonky flight of stairs is more difficult than Illya it remembers it to be. He declined more than he actually drank, but he still feels the effects. It’s been a while since he’s had a drink.

He turns around to find Gaby still standing at the top of the stairs, looking at him with a small smile. Illya can’t help but return it.

“Let us walk you home.”

Gaby blinks at him, her brows lifting slightly.

“I live above the bar.”

Illya’s expression must have slipped, because she snorts amusedly.

“Very honorable of you though, if that was all you wanted to offer.”

Illya can feel the heat rising in his face again.

“It was.”

Her eyes flick to the side to Solo, who made his way over to Illya suspiciously silent, then back at him. “Pity.”

Illya doesn’t know what to respond to that.

She takes another step down, so she’s standing closer. She’s still smaller than him, even remaining on the last step, but she’s not quite so far down now. It would be easy to lower his head just a little, to make their lips meet.

Illya catches himself a moment later and steps away hastily, nearly stumbling. Gaby keeps her eyes on him, looking amused, but not like she’s going to laugh at him. It’s nice.

A small smile returns to Illya’s face.

“Good night, little chop shop girl.”

She huffs at the nickname.

“Get home safely, you fools.”

They wait for her to climb the stairs back up. With the door already open, she turns to them.

“Auf Wiedersehen.”

Both Illya and Solo repeat the words back to her, before she closes the door. Despite all the confusion of the last few days, the small smile stays on Illya’s lips as he falls into step with Solo on their walk back. He wonders if Gaby chose her words deliberately. Auf Wiedersehen. Maybe she means it and would really like to meet them again someday. It’s not going to happen, not with the life Solo and he live, but it’s a nice thought, Gaby remembering them and maybe smiling a bit and wondering what they might be up to right now.

There’s one other thing Illya is thinking about right now though.

 Illya eyes Solo walking next to him.

“You knew where she lived, did you?”

Solo turns to him, his eyes wide in innocence.

“Of course I didn’t.”

To Solo’s credit, he sounds natural enough to fool anybody else besides the trained spy he’s been seeing daily for weeks now.

“Liar.”

Solo’s hand appears on Illya’s shoulder blade, making Illya’s head turn fully towards Solo, who’s meeting his gaze sincerely.

“Why would I lie to you, Peril? We’re partners.”

The small grin fighting its way onto his face is obvious now, but Illya for once doesn’t find it in himself to be mad. Illya sighs, but it sounds almost fond.

“That we are, Cowboy.”

They get back with only mild stumbling. Illya forgets to shake off Solo’s hand.

By the time Illya gets out of the small ensuite bathroom, Solo is already sprawling on the bed in his pajamas.

There’s still traces of product in his hair, but there are a few strands laying loose on his forehead. They look surprisingly curly and Illya catches himself wondering how Solo’s hair would look naturally.

Solo rolls to one side, blocking the view. His voice is muffled by the pillow, but his words are still easy to understand. 

“I guess you prefer having breakfast on the way tomorrow?”

Illya hums in approval, having not even thought about that.

“Alright. Good night, Peril.”

It’s the first time he notices the nickname doesn’t annoy him.

“Goodnight Cowboy.”

Illya is already pulling the door of the living room shut behind him when Solo sits up again with a small frown on his face.

“Where are you going?”

Illya doesn’t understand, but he pauses in the doorway.

Solo looks at him for a few moments, then he tilts his head slightly.

His voice drops without a warning.

“You know you don’t have to sleep on the couch.”

Illya freezes.

There’s a beat of silence between them before Solo huffs out a small laugh.

“You can stop looking scandalized now and come to bed, Peril. The couch must be killing you.” With a quiet sigh Solo lies back against the cushions, making himself more comfortable.

“No funny business, I promise your virtue is safe with me. I don’t take losing to the charms of a strong woman personally.” He winks and Illya isn’t sure if he’s serious or not. His feet feel like someone glued him to the ground, not being able to move away or step forward.

Solo didn’t exactly lose.

But Illya can’t say that.

It’s just that Solo doesn’t lose to the charms of a woman, because Illya isn’t interested in those. He’s drunk enough to admit to himself that Solo’s charms still work on him irritatingly well.

But Solo is his partner, they are supposed to work together, so he can’t say that either.

He could say that he only lost to Gaby, because Gaby confuses him. He doesn’t know what he feels about her, he barely knows her, and he knows Solo. Probably not nearly half of him, but in some strange way he likes Solo. Not just physically, but Solo in general.

But he can’t _say that_.

Solo is looking curiously at him, because Illya is still standing with one foot in the bedroom and one foot in the living room without moving or even speaking for too long now.

He blurts it out without really meaning to.

“I like men.”

Illya’s eyes go wide the moment the words leave his mouth. It’s the first time he has ever said this aloud. To anyone. And he regrets it instantly.

He expects disgust forming on Solo’s face. He feels the shame lurking in the corner of his mind, waiting to attack.

His thoughts are alternating between panic and blankness by the second. All this could have been an elaborate set-up, couldn’t it? Some cruel joke Illya didn’t know how to recognize fast enough. He could try to play it off, but he already knows it wouldn’t work. He’s not good at those things. He drank when he knows he shouldn’t and then he went and said the one thing he knows he can’t. It’s his own fault. He should have never agreed to team up with Solo. He saw this coming miles away and instead of turning around he ran with it.

What he doesn’t expect is Solo just blinking at him lazily and pulling the blanket up to his middle.

“I got that. But you still like Gaby.”

Illya doesn’t have the time to feel relieved, even to feel surprised. Instantly there’s another feeling settling in his stomach. It’s not exactly fear, but too similar to be comfortable. Because he thinks he like her somehow, doesn’t he? But then he glances at Solo, who’s looking at him from the bed, the sloppily buttoned pajama top revealing a bit more shoulder than it should, and it makes heat pool low in his stomach. He just doesn’t know what this all means.

Solo raises his eyebrows at his silence. From one moment to the other he looks a lot less drunk.

“You do know that you don’t have to rule someone out categorically either way, right? You just like whoever you like.”

Strangely, Illya never thought about it that way.

He nods automatically, because Solo might be right in some sense. It’s not like Illya chooses who he likes. He wouldn’t have chosen to like Solo, his partner who drives him up the wall periodically, or Gaby, a one-in-a-million woman he will never see again. Or both, somehow at the same time.

But he does like them.

And maybe that revelation is what makes Illya comply. His feet start to obey his commands again and he walks over to the other side of the bed.

Solo sticks to his promise. He stays firmly at his side of the bed, no wandering limbs or suspicious shuffling around.

Still, sleeping with someone close enough to touch, just because he likes it, fills Illya with a warm feeling he can’t quite name.

 

***

 

They meet Gaby again.

Of course they do.

They are supposed to meet their engineer, the third permanent member of their team, and Gaby walks around the corner, revealing her UNCLE credentials.

The surprise on Solo’s face seems genuine at least.

It turns out she knew the moment they stepped into the garage. It also turns out Gaby isn’t too big on ruling things out either.

It’s the third time Illya regrets joining UNCLE when he realizes that Gaby is just as bad as Solo when it comes to pushing Illya’s buttons.

He stops regretting it when he wakes up one early morning in Rome with both Solo and Gaby curled into him and fast asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Translation for the exchanges in German: 
> 
> “Max, kannst du sie für mich abschleppen?“  
> “Sie nicht, das Auto schon.“  
> Gaby basically asks Max, if he could tow Solo and Illya's car for her, but Max responds with "Not them, but their car", because Gaby's question could also be understood as "Could you get them into my bed for me", so Max practically tells her that yes, he can tow their car, but she has to get them into her bed herself.
> 
> “Aufs Haus. Wir werden dich vermissen, Gaby.“  
> [These are] on the house. We're going to miss you, Gaby
> 
>  The other German lines are taken directly from the movie


End file.
